


I Carve my Sorrows on my Skin

by Cactaceae28



Series: A Study in Floriography [2]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Anal Sex, Body Worship, Bottom Julian Bashir, Emotional Intimacy, Emotional Sex, Flowers, Lonely Elim Garak, M/M, POV Elim Garak, Romance, Sappy Elim Garak, Soul Scars, Spiritual Tattoo Appreciation, Top Elim Garak
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:42:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25631476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cactaceae28/pseuds/Cactaceae28
Summary: The temperature was too cold, the lights were too bright, the people far too alien. Fortunately for Elim Garak, something beautiful can bloom even from the most inhospitable of soils.(Or, an AU where humans get a mark in the form of a flower every time they’ve been hurt, but somehow the story is about Garak’s mostly-unrelated meltdown. And also Garashir.)
Relationships: Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Series: A Study in Floriography [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1865254
Comments: 19
Kudos: 71





	1. Chapter 1

If he had to name the most taxing aspect of his relocation to the repurposed facilities of Terok Nor —if, for some unfathomable reason, he was inclined towards honesty— he wouldn’t have chosen the cold, nor the light but the uniquely alien foible shared by the majority of mammalian sentients in the quadrant.

Unlike Cardassians, who zealously guarded their secrets, for whom even their names were a gift to share only with those closest to their heart, whose skin was uniformly grey and hard, most other species were an open window to an astonishing degree. For most species in the quadrant every betrayal, every loss, every hurt that was deep enough to wound their spirit would likewise leave a mark on the skin, blooming into a colourful flower somewhere in their bodies.

Even the Romulans, sensible as they were in most other matters, experienced this curious uncovering of their inner selves –though Romulans, at least, were shrewd enough to cover the markings as a matter of course. Still, not even the Tal Shiar, masters of deception as they believed themselves to be, could erase for long what had appeared once and their secrets were left at the mercy of the whims of their biology.

Humans did not even have that minimum of decorum, allowing these humbling markings to show whenever they may, casually revealing necks, wrists, calves and shoulders as if they had no care of who could see and learn this information.

Bajorans, in their continuous attempts to differentiate themselves from Cardassians and now fresh from their rule, went out of their way to display them whenever that was possible, taking fierce pride in the flowers carved in vibrant, jarring colours against their skins.

It was perturbing. Indeed, ‘glass-skinned’ had been a common insult on Cardassia from as far as back as its first dealings with other species; to utter it towards any member of the Obsidian Order had been tantamount to a declaration of open enmity, no less than an invitation for an assassination attempt. Garak had, in fact, judiciously used it in a few memorable instances of his past that at present were, alas, better left unmentioned.

It had been a difficult period of adjustment to be exposed to the truths of virtually every stranger he met on the station bared for any to see. His new role as a tailor had proven to be more taxing that it had any right to be and at times it had been only his lack of prospects and remaining pride in his abilities that had allowed him to bear the utter carelessness some of these aliens had regarding the protection of their deeper nature, which on occasion had bordered on the obscene.

To compound his misery, he didn’t have the luxury of looking away in second-hand shame when a plunging neckline, a hiking skirt or a sleeveless vest displayed a particularly bold design and only his unmatched skill as an undercover operative had salvaged some of the now currently sorely-needed deals, as any inkling of contempt would drive his potential clientele away. Bajorans barely gave a Cardassian establishment a fair chance anyway.

\-----

His first careful overture to ingratiate himself with the new chain of command had, mercifully, been made considerably easier by the ugly but layered and fully concealing Starfleet uniform: with the long sleeves and turtleneck it had been easier to pretend not to notice the smattering of colours just hidden by a cuff on the young doctor’s wrist when he self-consciously batted at the centrepiece in front of him.

While the borderline scandalous nature of his farewell had still made his heart rate pick up, the fabric had been just enough of a distraction to stop Elim from wondering what might lay underneath his hands when he pressed on the narrow, trembling shoulders.

It had been harder to hide his reaction when, a few months later, necessity led him to the doctor’s quarters in the middle of the night to foil the ploy against Pa’Dar.

The human had complained and tried to interrogate him, but nothing had made Garak doubt his approach more effectively that the ease with which the young man eventually shed the top of his pyjamas as he moved to the bathroom to change, as if he had nothing worth hiding. Elim’s throat went dry at the burst of colours displayed on the lithe body and he was torn between committing the shapes to memory and lowering his eyes to the floor, his father’s training be damned.

The stolen glance was enough to task his self-restraint later, when he stood back and watched as his temporal partner in crime took control of the room to expose Dukat’s scheme. While the doctor moved and gestured, methodically piercing through the layers of deception and delivering his lines with the flair of an accomplished actor, Garak’s attention wavered as his mind insisted on painting images of purple and green designs rippling over taut muscles and he found himself wondering how they would feel to the touch.

The images haunted him. Even the relief that the implant brought him on every other matter wasn’t enough. The endorphin hit made it easier to be near the mammals, easier to not focus on their marks and what truths they mirrored. It also made it easier to be near Bashir, no doubt, to share lunches and take his measurements without his hands trembling but he would still find himself fantasizing at odd moments, dreaming of blurry alien flowers that he longed to pluck and tear apart.

Garak was a survivor, though. He could endure this as he had endured everything else. For months, he was able to lie to himself as expertly as he lied to the rest of the galaxy and he kept on surviving. It worked up until the moment when the implant began to break down, and suddenly everything was too much. The cold was far more biting, the lights were blinding, the colours were strident, almost phosphorescent and the flowers mocked him by slipping in and out of focus any time he let his control falter.

As if the torture of his current agonizing decay wasn’t enough, once the ability to conceal his state faltered, the good doctor refused all of his attempts at re-establishing a safe distance. During the days that followed, Julian parried all of his attacks and refused to abandon him to his well-deserved end.

No matter what he revealed —the cruelties he had performed in his father’s name, his capacity for violence, his growing, unmanageable attraction—, the human stayed until he grew too weary to pretend that he didn’t find comfort in knowing that Julian’s eyes and voice would be the last thing he would see and hear, and the selfish reassurance that even if he died abandoned by Cardassia, he might still leave a mark in the one who had proven to be a steadfast companion.

Yet his dear, foolish doctor surprised him again and Elim lived. Once the events that led to his survival became clear and he recovered most of his mental abilities, the sour knowledge that Tain considered his betrayal so unforgivable that he didn’t feel satisfied with a short exile was eclipsed by the certainty that Julian found him worthy enough to put his own life and his reputation at risk.

When he escaped the infirmary and the formidable constable’s interrogation, it didn’t take long to decide he’d rather look for the doctor’s company than sequester himself in his quarters. He navigated through the afternoon crowds, easily finding the lone figure clad in black and blue.

There was an air of melancholy betrayed by Julian’s slumped shoulders that disappeared as soon as Elim occupied the opposite chair and his surprise quickly left way to delight. In the face of this welcome it was easier to smile, easier to go back to the semblance of normalcy he had started to construct ever since he had met the younger man in this very same place. When the conversation circled back to the stories he had crafted in his incapacitation, each of them guarding a truth he couldn’t convey in any other way, it was easier to answer.

_“My dear doctor… they are all true.”_

_“Even the lies?”_

_“Especially the lies.”_

Something wry and fond passed behind the doctor’s eyes as he took in his words and he helplessly shook his head. When he looked back up he was smiling a rueful smile —simply accepting Elim as he chose to present himself.

How long had it been, he wondered, since he had exposed himself so to another person? How long since he had been granted that easy acceptance, not one borne out of familial responsibility or fear or begrudging admiration –but simple respect, from one individual to another?

_Not since her._

He was too tired still to keep his usual iron control and before he could think twice about it he reached across the table and lightly brushed against the small spot of white on Julian’s pulse point, letting the warmth seep into his fingers.

When he looked back up the doctor’s eyes were wide and hopeful and his smile hadn’t wavered; somehow Julian was still able to look at him like nothing had changed. This man who should despise him, if not for what he was, then for what he had revealed— he had to know that Garak had lied, cheated and killed and still he had braved the den of Tain for his sake. Now he also knew how badly Elim had wanted him, still wanted him and how little he had to offer in return yet miraculously he wasn’t repulsed by it.

Slowly enough to clearly telegraph his intentions, Julian gently turned his palm to grasp Elim’s hand. His grip was steady and sure but also loose enough that Elim could have broken away anytime he wanted.

He didn’t.

\-----

The years passed and he learned to bear the cold and the light and even the ubiquitous flowers became less grating once he trained himself to let his guard down just far enough to stop trying to analyse what they said of the strangers around him.

After all, most of those people were not important. There was only one whom he wanted to know completely, inside and out.


	2. Chapter 2

In the privacy and relative safety of his quarters, which he generally sweeps for any surveillance devices that may have been installed, his feelings are always easier. There, he is free to relieve his dear Julian from the hideous blue and black jumpsuit. The younger man, usually so impatient, allows him to have his ritual with nothing but a fond, understanding smile.

Before he allows himself anything further, Elim lightly grasps Julian’s right wrist and the delicate chain of flowers that lays there, always mindful of his own strength. These remain the less revealing part on the garden of his lover’s soul and even after all this time he breathes a little easier knowing that there isn’t much that they reveal to anyone looking to hurt the human, still entirely too trusting after all these years.

Julian brushes their lips together at the same time as he mimics the gesture with his other hand, a quick, acknowledging squeeze. Elim relaxes his grip, letting go with a final lingering touch, reciting their origin in his mind even if he never stalls for long: a Terran edelweiss, for the death of a little girl in Invernia II, then a daisy for the first patient Julian had lost (a common appearance, he is told, for most humanoid doctors).

The other two wake a flame of possessiveness in him: a vibrantly orange Bajoran morning bell, much smaller in size but a partner to the marking that snakes around the major’s forearm and a dandelion that Elim has seen, duplicated almost to the petal, on the back of the captain’s hand.

Julian’s mouth quirks, well aware of his brief moment of jealousy, and he steps neatly out of the jumpsuit, leaving it abandoned on the floor with a sardonic lift of the eyebrow. If Elim surrenders to the implied challenge and bends down to pick the piece of clothing back up, he will only be baring his kinat’hU to his lover’s clever fingers. Tonight he stands back, restraining himself to a tilt of the head that bares the sensitive scale in his neck without stepping closer, a challenge of his own.

Julian accepts the offer instead, cupping his jaw and lowering his hands with torturous slowness down the shoulder ridges. With the ease of long familiarity, his left hand goes to the zipper and he slides the jacket off Elim’s body one-handed. He uses the movement of sliding the sleeves off his body to press even closer and lightly breathe on the kinat’hU, his nose almost buried on the crook of Elim’s neck and gently brushes his teeth against it.

Elim can’t hold back the growl that rumbles in his throat as he slides his hands down strong, lean tights until they reach the back of Julian’s knees, using the motion to topple them both on top of the bed.

Bracketing Julian’s supine body with his own, his hand dips for a heartbeat to cup the pale blue shrade-bush that bloomed on his doctor’s left calf knowing, as he does, that it is one of the few whose presence still brings Julian pain, in contrast to the relief it brings Elim himself, knowing that his partner is capable of protecting his own life even if it requires violence.

With a grunt of his own, Julian wiggles up on the bed until he can move again and soon his hands are on Elim again, undoing the buttons of his trousers and slipping his hand inside to stroke his ajan, just brushing against the chuva and retracting his hand far too soon for this to be anything but another challenge.

Elim doesn’t let him retreat, abandoning everything else to run his hands all the way up Julian’s tights and on his groin. Julian makes a strangled noise, rutting against Elim’s hand when his hands find the perineum, sending a shock of warmth into Elim that he so rarely gets to experience even now. Julian’s breaths are coming faster and his hand flails looking for purchase; eventually he rakes his nails down Elim’s shoulders, almost hard enough to be painful.

Elim works on the head of the cock in his hands, rubbing it until it is half hard and starting to leak pre-cum and only then does he stop, prompting a curse from Julian. Instead hooks his fingers on the hem of the mauve turtleneck. Julian tilts forward, biting at his lower lip and abruptly capturing his mouth in a heated kiss, one that Elim finds himself indulging for far too long before he is able to wrestle his body’s reaction under control. 

Finally, he drags the garment up with the reverence the act deserves, revealing the tantalizing mismatched mosaic drawn on a smooth, golden canvas, a stark contrast to his grey skin, marred only by ragged scars. The picture is still deliciously alien even after the novelty of the scale-less body under him is past, shining now with a thin sheen of sweat.

He ruthlessly ignores the mark on his lover’s bicep even though he cannot forget it exists. If the small link Julian shares with his colleagues bothers him when he’s at his most vulnerable, it has nothing on the feelings evoked by the innocent, fragile-looking purple-pink flowers that rest there. A lilac: a first, young, lost love.

Even now that the burn of jealousy has faded to a bitter but manageable afterthought, he won’t bring himself to touch it, he doesn’t trust himself to seek a name to attach to it and he doesn’t investigate the reason for its presence, selfishly glad that it means he can have his dear doctor in his arms.

Julian sits and their excess clothes are tossed aside. He leans down towards his chest and licks his chula, nibbling lavishly until it responds and turns blue. Elim’s hands go to his shoulders to steady him, digging his blunted nails into the flesh and prompting a satisfied grunt on his lover.

From this position if he draws Julian even closer into his arms he can see the largest soul scar, so large that it covers most of the right scapula. He rests his palm there, covering the cup-shaped flower, a deep purple streaked with white that contrasts beautifully with the skin, now glistening with sweat. It would be lovely if it weren’t for the thorny weeds that encase it.

He wonders whether he will ever have the courage to search for the whole story besides what he has already learned. It is a crocus, a symbol of a childhood strangled; and oh, how he longs for that deeper connection, perhaps, even, for understanding, but he cannot. Not now, not yet, perhaps not ever because he is a selfish creature and even in this intimate moment he can’t bear the possibility of baring a truth so raw and so ugly and the similar, invisible scar in his own soul.

In response to the new-found tension in his body, Julian stops what he’s doing and straightens, pressing their foreheads together and simply holding on to Elim’s broad shoulders. There’s a question in the stillness, a renewed assurance that they can stop if it has become too much and it won’t impact their relationship.

Elim breathes through the bitterness and knows that in this, like in so many other aspects, Julian is being truthful.

He rests his hands on Julian’s hips, drawing him close. Julian is shaking faintly with the intensity of his need but for this moment he holds himself still. He’s breathing unsteadily and the warm air puffs against Elim’s cheeks, making the vice that grips his heart unfurl like only Julian can achieve in these days.

He opens his eyes and begins moving again, letting his hands roam up and down Julian’s flank. One hand goes up to Julian’s neck as they move down, the other unconsciously ghosting over his stomach and up his chest, following the paths where the clear skin has given way to spidery green lines of a brittle vine filled with white puffs of flowers. Julian has talked about them before, the resilient weed that grew on every shaded corner of the desolate streets on the Teplar homeworld.

Julian shivers but doesn’t object to his touch; a marked improvement of the time, a few months ago now, when the reminder would have driven him out of their bed in the middle of the night and Elim would have woken to the harsh light of a terminal monitor filtering through the door.

The hurdle is over and the air thickens again with their reignited passion and the scent of their shared arousal. There is a breathless pause in their movements, a moment filled with anticipation as they prepare to give themselves to each other, but Elim has always had a propensity for self-defeat.

Before anything else can happen, his eyes are drawn to the silver and green cezhel milfoil nested among the soft brown hair in the middle of Julian’s chest. It’s only a bud, and though he has vowed that he will never again give it a cause to grow into a mature flower, its existence is the ultimate proof of his failure. He knows exactly when it was first drawn, and even seeing the evidence of the pain his actions have brought, he can’t say that he would have acted any differently on that day with the Founder’s challenge ringing in his ears.

Julian takes his hand and interlaces their fingers together, then guides it gently but firmly until their joined hands hide the small flower from view. Elim accepts the gesture for the moment, focusing on the warmth, the heartbeat and the regular movement of his partner’s breaths to lock away the memory of those weeks when for the first time his doctor hadn’t been able to look him in the eye.

Realizing, as he always does, when Elim is in danger of getting lost in his own head, Julian huffs an exasperated sigh, laced with frustration and want, and picks up the pace once again. Julian rakes his free hand through his sleeked hair, easily finding purchase in the black strands, using the leverage to anchor himself and rock his hips upwards, grinding his cock against Elim’s chuva and sending a shiver of pleasure that pools in his stomach.

His doctor doesn’t let any time pass before his fingers are pressing against the lips of Elim’s ajan, teasing and pinching for a moment before a devious expression crosses his face and he bends down, licking a long, straight line over the slit that immediately causes it to part and his prUt everts.

Rational thought is driven out of Elim’s head when Julian looks back up, fully bared before him, with his lips still wet, his hair mussed and that look of untamed victory blazing in his eyes. He crashes their mouths together, and there is nothing soft about this kiss as he lays a hand on the back of Julian’s neck to bring them closer, teeth clicking and tongues still battling for dominance as he pulls the man down, fumbling to lubricate his fingers.

Making full use of his flexibility, Julian twists and hooks his leg on Elim’s shoulder, ankle pressing against the scales of his neck, displaying his entrance and further driving Elim into losing what little remains of his control. He inches forward, resting a hand on the tightly coiled muscles of Julian’s other leg and buries a finger, finding a quick rhythm in and out.

After a few thrusts he adds a second finger and then a third, increasingly desperate for release, scissoring him open carefully but firmly. Once the rippling muscle starts to give under his touch he uses the motion to expertly twist the fingers inside and Julian howls with pleasure when he manages to hit the correct spot.

Elim doesn’t try to hold back a cry of his own when he finally thrusts inside the pink hole and pushes in one steady move until he’s completely engulfed in the heat. Julian loudly groans, fully erect, fisting the bedsheets under them. He slightly pushes up into a better position as Elim thrusts begin to settle into a faster rhythm.

Everything else fades away, and the world shrinks down until it is only him, his lover and the electrifying motion that constricts his prUt, sending shocks of pleasure up and down his spine. He takes Julian’s cock in his hand and strokes, trying to keep the same rhythm as his thrusts inside the wet hole, but he’s failing, losing control and as the tension rackets up and up the lasts dregs of his façade falls and he surrenders completely.

With a final jerk, the ring of muscle around him tightens and they come together with a shout in an instant that feels suspended in time. For one unidentifiable, breathless moment as he rides the aftershocks of his orgasm, Elim is blinded by the waves of brilliant colours curling around them in his mind’s eye; and then it is over.

Eventually their breaths slow, sounding less ragged and settling into normal patterns. Julian’s soft moans peter out with a long, satisfied sigh. Soon he is half-sleep, sprawled on their bed and still as alien and as beautiful as he had been their first time.

Elim’s hand reverently brushes against the soft golden skin with its short matting of hair and the brief bursts of blooming designs of bared secrets and wonders once again how he came to be fortunate enough to be able to lay claim to moments like this. To have found someone patient enough to wait for him, smart enough to fight him and forgiving enough to take him back.

His roaming hands elicit a sleepy but satisfied murmur as a hand lazily comes up and snags his wrist, pulling him closer. He accepts it and lays down, letting their entwined hands guide him into a loose, one-armed embrace and allows himself to simply exist for a few hours.

**Author's Note:**

> Though the plot here is ~~non-existent~~ different, this two-shot was inspired by the beautiful short story **Seasons set in skin** by Caroline Yoachim. Her anthology, [Seven Wonders of a Once and Future World](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/28515607-seven-wonders-of-a-once-and-future-world-and-other-stories), is quite possibly the best Fantasy/Sci-fi collection of short stories I have ever read and I heartily recommend it.
> 
> Also, a huge thank you to tinsnip’s [Speculative Cardassian Reproductive Xenobiology](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1719479). I know I’m not the first to say it, but still without that work this wouldn’t exist, so thank you! ~~but this is actually my first time writing smut and this was so embarrassing, what did I just write…~~
> 
> Also, also I now have a [tumblr](https://cactaceae-writes.tumblr.com/)! Huzzah! It's pretty empty right now, but check it out if you're interested, I'm cactaceae-writes :)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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